


And That’s Okay

by shiverelectric



Category: Flight of the Conchords
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2009-05-29
Updated: 2010-04-24
Packaged: 2017-10-16 21:21:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/169479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiverelectric/pseuds/shiverelectric
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bret and Jemaine get a gig. But first, they go camping.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. people love acoustic music

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



“Okay guys, band meeting,” Murray began as usual, flipping the notepad to the day’s roll call and agenda. “Bret?” An affirmative “present” answered and a tick to his name. “Jemaine?” Jemaine nodded, but Murray, who was intently focused on the page before him didn’t notice, so he repeated the question.

“Present,” Jemaine huffed after the third repeat of his name. Arms crossed and eyes set to rolling, he was in a mood.

Murray glanced up and caught Jemaine’s standoffish attitude. “Now don’t be such a turkey, Jemaine. You know how important an accurate attendance record is. Remember when you were here and Bret wasn’t?”

He nodded, though Bret replied, “Yeah, but I was just using the restroom.”

“Yes, and by the time you’d gotten back, I had to go back over item One that I already covered with Jemaine and we wasted time that could have been spent on items Two or even Three,” he explained. “As it is now, I have to mark Jemaine as tardy, and I won’t hear anymore about it.” Going back to the notepad, he finished, “Murray, present.”

Sufficiently reprimanded, Jemaine bit back a remark about how Murray saw him enter the office with Bret and shouldn’t be marked as tardy. “Sorry, Murray,” he said instead, with little real meaning behind it. “I’ve just been a bit irritated lately. We haven‘t had a gig in weeks.” Bret guiltily nodded in agreement.

“Well, that’s not true,” Murray replied. “Just last week you played a set.”

“We played in a subway tunnel because you saw some homeless people doing it,” Bret answered. “People walked by dropping change into our guitar cases, but we didn’t even make enough to do our laundry,” he ended, picking sadly at the lint covering his sweater.

“There wasn’t even a place to plug in our amps. We had to play with no electricity,” Jemaine added.

“Of course you didn‘t,” Murray began, searching for the term, “it was acoustic. People love acoustic music.”

“When it’s played on acoustic guitars,” Jemaine argued under his breath as their manager went on.

“But I’ll make a note here, _‘Subway gigs: not much money’_. Someone should tell that to the homeless saxophonist I saw.”

“Yeah,” Bret agreed. “He must not have a band manager.”

“Do you have any gigs for us, Murray?” Jemaine interrupted. “Proper paying gigs?”

“As a matter of fact, I do,” he answered. “ _‘Item One: I’ve gotten the guys a gig’_. It’s a state-wide convention.”

Bret and even Jemaine perked up immediately. Murray grinned, pleased at their interest, and explained the details.

  
*//*

  
Three Hours Later, Bret and Jemaine were standing in a lightly wooded area holding sleeping bags and a tent.

“Well, here we are, guys,” Murray grinned like a Cheshire. “Smell that fresh air!”

“We’re only about four kilometres from the road, Murray. I can still smell the exhaust from the cars passing by,” Jemaine grumbled as Bret took another look around the area. “And how is camping supposed to help us with the new gig?”

“It’s a lumberjack convention, Jemaine,” Murray began as they started clearing away the larger fallen branches. “One of the manliest professions around. You’re a big guy, and Bret has a good-looking beard, but you’re both missing the ruggedness that roughing it outdoors can build. Now, I’ve lent you some camping gear, it should be enough to get you through the next few days.”

“How’d you get all this stuff anyway?” Bret asked as he rummaged through a duffel bag full of miscellaneous camping equipment.

“Well, it’s, uh, Jim and mine’s” their manager replied, a slight flush rising in his cheeks. “We, well, we occasionally like to go and enjoy the great outdoors”

“So why is there only one tent?” Bret continued as he and Jemaine set up the single tent.

“Jim’s is in the cleaner… But don’t worry, mine may be a bit cozy, but it’s large enough to house two if the weather goes bad.”

Jemaine frowned. “Bad?” He was liking the idea of camping less and less.

“Yeah, nothing like getting rained on while dozing underneath the open sky in only a sleeping bag. Water gets into the most uncomfortable places,” Murray replied, speaking from experience. “But the weather reporter said there’d be nothing be sunny days and warm nights this week.”

And with that, Murray left the guys to their weekend training purposes camping trip.


	2. s'mores are good

“So…”

“So.”

“…wanna make some s’mores?” Bret asked, his latest attempt at cheering Jemaine up from his sour mood. So far, building a campfire did nothing for him. So what that they then had to stamp out a small grass fire that started up all of a sudden and Jemaine’s shoes began to melt a little? That kind of thing is what camping was all about.

After that, a session of songwriting for their gig was cut short. Jemaine complained that the heat from the fire was drying out his guitar strings and making his notes sharper than Bret’s. Even though Bret didn’t hear a difference, he shrugged and thus they had spent several minutes in relative silence, which was occasionally punctuated by police sirens and wild animal calls. As the sky continued to darken, and Bret’s stomach reminded him that he hadn’t eaten since that morning, the idea of s’mores just seemed right.

Jemaine continued to stare into the fire, but shrugged a shoulder, which Bret took to mean ‘Yes, I would like some s’mores, but I’m not going to make them’. Bret smiled and began to strip the bark off two nearby sticks.

Humming part of a melody to himself, Bret set two marshmallows each onto the sticks and stuck them into the fire. Jemaine frowned when Bret pulled out four fireballs. He blew them out and offered two of the blackened gobs (that maybe could have been mistaken for marshmallows in a pitch black alley) to Jemaine, but they promptly melted right off the stick onto Jemaine’s shoes.

“Oops, sorry man,” Bret grinned, apologies the furthest thing from his mind. He was too busy trying not to completely burst into laughter at the look of shock and disgust on Jemaine’s face.

“Aw, look what you’ve done,” Jemaine scolded Bret as he used twigs and leaves to clean the sticky mess off his much-abused shoes. “And give me those,” he demanded, his tone clearly of someone that has to do everything themselves if they want it done right. He reached for the roasting sticks, but Bret moved his arm just out of reach.

“Well a ‘please’ would be nice.” Bret’s eyes gleamed with the light of the fire as he challenged Jemaine.

Jemaine’s eyes narrowed and he set his lips against saying anything, especially “please”. He made another grab for the sticks, and again Bret dodged his grasp.

“Bret…” Jemaine warned, voice low. “Give me the sticks.”

Slowly, Bret replied, “No way, man.”

Like a shot, Jemaine lunged at Bret. Bret twisted his arm out of Jemaine’s reach, but the maneuver left him completely open. Grabbing Bret by the upper arms, Jemaine pushed Bret off his log and pinned him to the ground, and sat on him for good measure.

“Ow, ow, ow, no fair! I wasn’t expecting that,” Bret groaned under the weight of his bandmate.

“Well, you were asking for it,” Jemaine said, humor and victory clear in his tone. “If you would have just given me the sticks, you wouldn’t be down there now.” Bret struggled in vain to somehow reverse their positions, but the log he was previously sitting on now served as a trap for his legs.

“Yeah, yeah.” He continued to wiggle about on the ground, oblivious to the proximity of his hips to Jemaine’s, or the intimate act he inadvertently mimed.

Jemaine, on the other hand, was more than aware. He flushed a deep red that reached his ears, and stammered something along the lines of “Yeah, well you should have handed them over,” as he quickly rose from atop his friend, taking the sticks with him.

With his arms freed, Bret reached a hand under his lower back and pulled out a bag of thoroughly squashed marshmallows. “Hmm, these broke my fall,” he remarked, handing over the Stay Pufts that had definitely seen better days. He sat with rapt attention (which for Bret meant he wasn’t thinking about all the animals in the woods around them; he only vaguely noted them whenever a wild call echoed into the falling night) as Jemaine prepared a new set of mallows for them.

“…not just stick them right in the fire. Bret, are you even listening?” Jemaine asked, Bret noticed belatedly. “This is why you burn things all the time, always drifting off…”

“Oh, sorry man, I turned off for a moment there,” Bret genuinely apologized, and fell into easy conversation with his friend. Maybe his attention to Jemaine wasn’t so rapt, or rather, it was _on_ him and not what he was saying. Jemaine’s grumpiness had dissipated, leaving him in a lighter and happier mood. Kind of like how the air feels so much better after a storm, Bret mused.

He continued to watch as Jemaine held the marshmallows to the fire. His hands were sure as he rotated the sugary treats, and every now and then he would let the fire lick hungrily at the sweetness, then retract them before their flesh was marred by the heat…

Bret shook his head as he realized he was drifting off again. He always had the freakiest thoughts when his imagination ran wild like that.

“There, these are done,” Jemaine smiled as he handed Bret his marshmallows. “Pass me some crackers and chocolate, please.”

Bret did and they set to building their s’mores. Jemaine liked to have his marshmallows sandwiched between a layer of chocolate bars and then crackers. Bret tended to make his too big and would make a bit of a mess as he ate. Tonight he placed one of the marshmallows on a cracker first, and already his fingers became sticky from that layer alone. He then alternated from licking his fingers, to stacking some chocolate (which became a bit melty from being so near the fire), more crackers, eating half his second mallow and then (successfully) begging Jemaine for his second one to continue making his s’more tower, and adding more crackers and chocolate.

When Bret was finished, he had a s’more as tall as a standing gerbil. Jemaine eyed him warily as Bret held his rapidly melting masterpiece in hand.

Shooting Jemaine a satisfied grin, Bret set about devouring the giant s’more stack. More of it seemed to end up in his beard or on his lap, but all Jemaine said about it was, “Why do you have to make them so big if you know you’ll make such a mess out of it?”

Bret nodded his head as he tried to forcefully swallow a particularly large bite. “Mmm, because it’s fun,” he replied once his mouth was only halfway full. “I wish we had some milk though.”

“That’s what the chocolate and marshmallows are for, to make it not so dry.” Jemaine made a face, and then added, “You’ve got a bit, here…” He licked his thumb and reached over towards his bandmate.

Startled, Bret jerked back from Jemaine’s hand. “What’s that, what’re you doing?”

“You’ve got some marshmallow and chocolate on your face, I was gonna wipe it off.” Jemaine replied, a bit indignant.

“Eugh, but you licked your hand first.” Shuffling the least noticeable distance away, as if another inch or so between them would protect him from Jemaine-germs, Bret wiped his arm across his face. “Did I get it?”

Jemaine nodded. “I could have got it, not like I have cooties,” he said, as if reading Bret’s mind, and even though Bret was thinking exactly that he still gave him a ‘Me think that? Nooo’ look.  “Now your arm is gonna be all sticky and messy.” Rummaging in the camping bag, Jemaine found a small towel, wet it with some of their drinking water, and handed it to Bret. “Here, wipe your arm off or ants will eat you alive. Then how will you play guitar?”

Bret smiled, and gratefully took the towel. “Thanks man.” Jemaine was always looking out for him. Once arms and face where clean of any ant-inducing sweetness, Bret asked, “Hey, you wanna look at some star shapes?”

Jemaine accepted, and unrolling their sleeping bags, they lay opposite of each other, heads together but feet end points of a line. Through the large openings of the tree tops, they could see the night sky full of stars. Bret liked to use his hands and trace out the shapes he saw in the sky, even if the stars were part of well-known constellations. Jemaine liked the Bretstellations, they called them, because each time they were different, even on the same night as Bret discovered them.

That chatted on into the night, and after some time, Bret asked, “Do you think our gig will be any good? Like, an actual good gig?”

Jemaine was somewhat taken aback by the question. He’d been enjoying the camping so much that he’d nearly forgotten about the convention they were preparing for. “Yes,” he said with little hesitation. “Even though we haven’t gotten many good ones lately, they’re only bound to get better, right?” He turned to ask Bret how he felt about it, and all he could see was Bret’s puppy dog eyes.

Jemaine grunted, a quick cover for the sudden hitch in breathing he felt, and said instead, “You shouldn’t worry about it, Bret. We’ll do our best, same as we always do.” He turned his head back and gazed out at the vastness of space, which really couldn’t compare to how lost he could get in Bret’s eyes sometimes. “Hey, at least one person in the audience will enjoy it.”

Bret made a small agreeable murmur. “Yeah. I wonder if she’s wondering where we are, now that we’re off our usual schedule.”

“Aw, don’t talk about her. For all we know, she could be stalking us from one of these trees, with a video recorder or something.”

Both men fell into silence and considered those possibilities, and shivered when they realized the odds were not in their favor.

“I, uh, think I’m gonna have a sleep now, in the tent,” Jemaine said quietly in case they were being overheard.

“Okay man, I’m going to sleep under the stars tonight. But let me change in the tent first…” Bret said, quickly searching for his pyjamas. “Flip,” he stated a moment later, “I forgot to pack them.” He came out of the tent clad in only his kitten-covered boxers and undershirt. For decency’s sake, Jemaine averted his gaze, but in his periphery he could see Bret snuggling down into his sleeping bag.

“Ah, I think I did too. ‘Spose I’ll be sleeping in my underwear as well…” Jemaine’s cheeks flushed as he went on, “and the tent is small, so, don’t come in here, okay?”

“Oh, yeah man, I’ll be fine out here. Murray said the weather is great this weekend,” Bret replied, already beginning to drift off to unconsciousness. The last thing he said before he was completely gone for the night was for Jemaine to put the fire out so there wouldn’t be anymore accidents, but Jemaine had already done that for him. He was always looking out for him, after all.


	3. tiny tent plus wet

“Bret? What, what are you doing? And are you, why are you dripping?” Jemaine asked, half asleep and mostly blind from the flashlight shining in his face.

The light angled downward and Jemaine rubbed the light’s afterimage from his eyes.  “It’s raining, I need to come in,” came the reply from underneath a soggy sleeping bag.

Jemaine squinted at Bret. His mate had the downtrodden look of a kitten caught out in the rain with no one letting him in where it was warm and dry. Then he thought of the wet cat smell and wandered if his friend had a ‘wet Bret smell’ going on. Pushing that train of thought from his mind, he realized the implications of what Bret was saying. Tiny tent plus wet Bret equals… Well, he could imagine the reaction Mel would have to a scenario like that.

“What? No, you can’t. You’ll get everything wet,” he said, thinking that was one sound bit of reasoning.

Bret frowned. “I have to, I can’t sleep in the rain, man. What if I get pneumonia and we have to cancel the gig?”

Jemaine grumbled, partly because he was always cranky when he didn’t get his sleep, but mostly because he knew Bret was right. Stupid Bret and his sounder bits of reasoning.

“Well at least change into your dry clothes first.”

Underneath the makeshift shelter that was once a snuggly sleeping bag, Bret shook his head, sending droplets of cold water flying everywhere. “All my things are out here, soaked. The only thing waterproof is my guitar case. Even my birthday suit is wet,” he smiled, ears reddened at the notion of his nudity. Neither of them were big fans of being nude, except with ladies, and even then it was just for the parts where you’re supposed to take your clothes off. Afterwards they would find their discarded bottoms before drifting off to sleep. But that certainly didn’t extend to their shared room, and definitely not to a space even smaller like a tent.

Unbidden, Jemaine thought of a dripping wet Bret with nary a stitch in sight. He cleared his throat, and mind of the image, scandalized mentally and shocked at himself. “Yes, well. You can, if you want, borrow a set of my clothes,” he offered, fidgeting in his sleeping bag. “For the night. Until yours dry out.”

“Yeah, that’d be great. Do you have a towel so I can dry off, too?” Jemaine rummaged in his pack for a moment and pulled out a towel, a pair of boxer briefs, and an undershirt two sizes too big for Bret’s lean frame and handed them to his friend outside. “Thanks,” came the grateful reply as Bret clicked off his flashlight.

Though it was still raining, it wasn’t the torrential downpour that had earlier sparked his nightmare. Right now he was just glad to get dry. He began to get out of his thoroughly soaked pajamas, peeling off his shirt which clung to him like a second skin.

Jemaine averted his eyes as Bret busied himself with changing. Even after years of living together they usually changed clothes in different rooms, walls and their modesty keeping them separate. Body consciousness went both ways, and Jemaine would sometimes feel like a large oaf compared to Bret.

After a few moments passed like hours, a newly dry Bret shuffled into the tent on his knees. “Thanks again, man,” he said just as lightening cracked across the sky, its glare silhouetting Bret in the tent opening. As he bent to pull the tent’s zipper closed, his small frame seemed even more so draped in Jemaine’s larger clothing. The top of the undershirt dipped low revealing his chest, and one hand clutched the waistband of the boxer briefs which threatened to slip further on his slim hips. Long after the darkness refilled the tent, the image remained burned in Jemaine’s vision as if it were daylight.

Jemaine’s mouth opened slowly. He wanted to quip away the sudden squeeze in his heart, to satirize how breakable his best friend was. But all he could say was, “This unzips all the way, so, we can use it as a blanket. If you want.” He was glad of the darkness as he added, “It… may be a bit small…”

Bret shivered, and not just from the cold. “Um. Yeah. Sure,” he replied. “I mean, it’s better than freezing.”

He shuffled closer to Jemaine and together they converted the sleeping bag into a blanket, extra warm from Jemaine‘s body heat. Jemaine even shifted his pillow over to share with Bret. Once settled under the blanket, the two men lay back to back. Through the thin layers of their shirts, Bret could feel Jemaine’s warmth and was extra grateful for it. He was already beginning to shiver uncontrollably.

“Thanks Jemaine,” Bret said, teeth starting to chatter. “I really mean it.”

Jemaine shrugged his shoulder, the movement clear against Bret‘s back. “You’d do the same for me.”

Bret wrapped his arms around himself to bring his body temperature up. “N-no,” he stuttered truthfully. “I don’t think I would’ve.”

Jemaine turned around towards Bret. The smaller man stiffened for a second, but his shivering was just too much. Jemaine lifted his right hand, hesitated, but finally brought it firmly down on Bret’s right arm. “I know,” he replied as he began to rub the warmth back into his friend’s arm.

Bret turned his face up and caught Jemaine’s right hand in his left. “I, I would have tried, though.” He flushed red and let go of Jemaine’s hand, which he realized belatedly he had laced his fingers with.

Jemaine smiled in the dark. “I know,” he said, because even though Bret sometimes wasn’t the most reliable, he did try to come through in the end. “Are you feeling better?”

“Yeah,” Bret mumbled, warmth and sleep beginning to claim his body.

Jemaine continued to rub his friend’s arm until Bret’s breathing settled into the deep and steady telltale pace of sleep. Jemaine started to turn around again, but thought better of it. Instead, he wrapped his arm around his friend and best mate and settled into sleep himself. The last thing he remembered thinking before drifting off was that Bret did indeed have a ‘wet Bret smell’ going on, but that it wasn’t that bad at all.


End file.
